Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - Buried in Ashes My Mother’s Survival of Unit 731 and the War Crime They Hid PART1 #45

Episode Date: July 15, 2025

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #creepypasta #horrortales #unit731 #warcrimes #survivorstory #hiddenhistory #darkpast  This harrowing account tells the story of a mother who survived the horrific human experiments conducted by Unit 731 during World War II. It exposes the dark secrets of a hidden war crime and reveals the lasting trauma that shadows generations. Part 1 of a chilling, true historical horror.  horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales, unit731, warcrimes, survivoraccount, hiddenhistory, darkwar, historicalhorror, humanexperiment, truehorror, wartimeatrocity, traumalegacy, hauntingpast, historyexposed, survivalstory, legacyofpain

You ever hear of Unit 731? Probably not unless you've dug real deep into some of the darkest corners of World War II history. It's the kind of thing they don't talk about in school. But it's real. Dead Raoul. It was this secret Japanese unit during the war that did all sorts of unspeakable things in the name of science, or whatever twisted excuse they had. We're talking about experiments on living people. Not volunteers.

prisoners, civilians, even kids, pregnant women. No one was safe. They dissected folks while they were still breathing, injected them with the plague and other nasty crap, used them like lab rats. Some say they killed hundreds of thousands across the area. My mother, she lived through it. Barely. She made it out when most didn't. And I'm here now because she survived. She told me her story before she passed, and man, it's haunted me ever since. You don't hear this kind of stuff from a textbook. This was her memory, seared into her soul.

She was just a girl when it happened. Lived in a small village about 50 miles out from Manchuquo, which, for those who don't know, was basically the headquarters for Unit 731. The day it all began. September 1st, 1942. My mom never forgot that date. It was the day the world she knew burned to ash. She told me about this one weird-looking bomb that dropped out of the sky like a feather drifting in slow circles.

It wasn't loud. Didn't make a sound like the bombs you see in the movies. Just a soft hiss as it spun through the air, then a crash when it hit the ground, like a giant ceramic vase. exploding. Only one plane flew over their town that day. White with the red circle of the rising sun painted on the side. It passed over quick, low enough to see, then it was gone. My mom said she remembered merchants stepping out of their shops, shielding their eyes from the sun, looking up all confused. She was just a little girl, five or six. She saw the bomb fall and run out to the backyard of her neighbor's house. The thing had shattered like pottery. She ran back in to tell her

mom. Ma. A plane dropped something. It broke like a plate. Didn't even blow up. What was it? Her mom, my grandma, froze. She was brewing tea, waiting for her husband to come back from work. The moment she heard the word Japanese, she paled. All the color drained. All the color drained. from her face. Stay inside, she whispered, rushing to the window, peering out like she expected death itself to walk up the road. She didn't answer any more questions. Just stared and stared, waiting for her husband. They didn't leave the house that whole day. My mom told me she just sat beside her mom in silence. The tea cooled. The sun fell. No sign of her dad. My grandma kept twitching and flinching, staring out the window like a ghost might appear. Eventually, she grabbed my mom's

hand, held it tight, and said something my mom never forgot. Something bad is coming. I don't know what. But it's close. If anything happens, I want you to know, I love you. I love you more than you can imagine. My mom said she nearly started crying. Her mother had never talked like that before. ever. Right before nightfall, her dad finally came back. He burst into the house drenched in sweat and panic. Didn't even say hi. Just slammed the door and ran to his wife. We have to go. Now, We're already too late, but we've got to try. What happened? Grandma asked, voice shaking. That ceramic bomb, what was it? He couldn't even look her in. the eye. We went to look at it, he said. Me and a few of the neighbors. We shouldn't have.

It wasn't a bomb. Not a normal one. Then what was it? Flee's. Thousands of them. Dead ones in the broken pieces. But way more alive, jumping around. I got bit. A lot of us did. Now, this is the part where my mom, being just a kid, like She said, fleas. That's it. I thought it was going to be something scary. She didn't know then. No one did. That same night, they packed up what little they had and got the hell out. Thought they were safe in the next town over, staying with grandma's parents. But they were wrong. So wrong. Three days later, my great-grandma came back from the market carrying a basket full of veggies. She looked pale, complained her head hurt, said her stomach was acting up. Just something I ate, she joked, trying to wave it off.

She even smiled at my mom, toothless and proud. That night, she collapsed. First came the fever, then the vomiting, diarrhea, sweating, sweating, rashes, sounded like the flu at first. But then came the boils. Big black bumps on her neck, under her arms. Puss leaking out in tiny streams. She coughed up blood.

My mom was there. She brought a cold cloth to her great-grandma's forehead. Tried to keep her cool. But it wasn't helping. Her skin was turning dark. Purple and black. Her nose was rotting. Literally.

Is it harvest time already? The old woman mutter. It's me, Grandma. Jing. Jing. She blinked like she was looking through a fog. Then came the blood. Coughing. Hacking. It spewed out. Thick. Black. Stained the sheets. She started mumbling to ghosts. Asking for her mother. Saying things like, take me home. And then the worst part, one of those boils popped right on her neck. It burst with a wet hiss. Smelled like rotting garbage. That was it for my mom. She ran. She couldn't take anymore. Hours later, her grandpa got sick too. Same symptoms. Same end. Died moaning and grabbing its shadows. It spread like wildfire. The plague. Black death. That's what it was.

But at the time, they didn't have a name for it. Just fear. Soon, nearly everyone in that little town was sick. My mom and her parents were the only one still standing. Until they saw something far worse than any boil or fever. Outside, just past the window, under a moonlit sky, they saw them. Japanese soldiers. White suits.

Gas masks. Gloves. They looked like aliens. Like monsters. They were knocking on doors. Dragging people out. My mom's mom rushed to her side. They're here. You have to hide. No hesitation. My grandma pushed her towards the giant metal oven in the corner of the kitchen. Back then, they didn't have microwaves or fancy appliances. Just a firewood burning beast of an oven. She yanked open the door. It was cold inside, ash and soot everywhere. Get in, she hissed.

My mom hesitated. Sneezed. Coughed. No time. Inside. She crawled in, curling up tight. The door slammed shut. Darkness.

Silence. Just her breathing. Heart racing. Then came the knock. Hard. Loud. Open, a voice barked. In broken Chinese, someone ordered them to come out.

She heard footsteps. Voices. Then silence. One soldier said something about logs. Another replied. She caught one word, fire. That's where she stopped the story the first time she told me. But years later, when she was dying, she told me the rest.

rest. They burned the house down. My grandma and grandpa never made it out. But somehow, the fire didn't reach the oven right away. Something collapsed, maybe. Maybe God intervened. My mom escaped hours later when the embers cooled. She crawled out of the ash like a ghost, her skin black with soot. Alone. Everyone gone. Just smoke in silence. She wandered. the countryside. Sick. Scared. Starving. But she made it. And she swore she'd never forget. Neither will I. It's weird to grow up with that kind of legacy hanging over your head. Knowing your mom survived one of the worst war crimes in history. That your very existence is a middle finger to the people who tried to erase her. She didn't tell many people her story. Too painful.

Too unbelievable. But she told me. And now, I'm telling you. Because stories like this need to be heard. Not buried. Never again. Never forget. To be continued.